Disaster
by dee768nj
Summary: One shot done as a challenge response. Stephanie gets a phone call that sends her racing for RangeMan. Warning: Kind of angsty. Babe, but no harm to Morelli.


_Rosa's Why Challenge—__Prompt : I don't know why._

_Warning: Kind of angsty, a bit sappy, but I just can't help myself. Babe, but no harm to Morelli._

_Disclaimer: Not my characters, not making any money._

**Disaster**

By Dee

Stephanie pulled out her cell phone and glanced at the caller ID.

"Hey, Eddie, how's it hanging?" She gave Eddie Gazarra her most chipper greeting, hoping he wasn't calling to try and convince her to babysit for his demon spawn. The last time he talked her into watching the hellkids, they duct-taped her to the Lazy-Boy, reclined it until the headrest hit the floor and dyed her hair with green Jello. There was a reason every piece of furniture in Eddie's house was covered with clear plastic slipcovers.

"Steph." His voice was rough and broken, and she knew instantly that something was wrong, that there was bad news.

"What is it, Eddie?" she asked, her heart thundering in her chest, the pulse pounding thick in her throat, threatening to choke her. "What's wrong?"

"There was an explosion at RangeMan. The whole top of the building blew off. Multiple injuries. And… Ranger is missing."

An arrow ripped through Stephanie's heart, and she clamped a hand over her chest, holding tight to the pain. Her vision darkened, her head spun, and her knees wobbled until she sank down the living room wall to the floor.

No, she thought, Ranger can't be gone. It's not possible. I haven't had a chance to tell him… She took a deep breath to combat the dizziness that threatened to rob her of consciousness. Her voice wouldn't work. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Was he upstairs when it…?"

"They say he was in the penthouse. Steph, there's nothing left of the top two floors. They're just… gone."

Stephanie dragged herself to her feet by gripping the arm of the sofa and forced her trembling knees to carry her weight. "I'm coming. I'll be right there."

As soon as she drove out of her parking lot and around the side of the building she could see the clouds of black smoke billowing up into the sky from downtown Trenton. Tears ran unnoticed down her face as she shot up Hamilton Avenue, mercifully clear for a Friday evening, and she squealed the brakes on her piece-of-shit Nissan rounding the corner onto Chambers.

Three blocks from Haywood, State Street was blocked off by a black-and-white, with a uniformed cop Stephanie didn't recognize directing traffic east, away from the scene. Stephanie pulled around the corner and drove up onto the sidewalk, abandoning the car with its door hanging open.

"Hey," the cop yelled at her, but she was already half a block away, running flat out, eyes streaming, mind blank, her only thought, hurry, hurry.

She was gasping, the breath sobbing in and out of her chest by the time she reached the corner of State and Haywood. The street and sidewalk were blocked off by yellow police tape, with uniformed officers maintaining the perimeter, and there was a crowd lined up along the boundary.

Stephanie ducked under the tape where it was tied to a parking meter, and ran straight into the arms of Picky Gaspick.

"Just hold it right there, Ms. Plum," Picky ordered, his iron grip on Stephanie's arm preventing her from going any further. "No civilians beyond this point."

"I need to…" Stephanie jerked at her arm and slipped out of his grasp, but before she got three steps he tackled her, knocking her to the pavement.

Stephanie lay there on the ground with hands scraped raw, jeans torn, knees skinned, weeping from pain and frustration, a paste of tears and mucous flowing. She buried her face in dirty, bloody hands, the salty tears stinging the open wounds and the blood and street grime smearing her cheeks.

"Let her go, for Chrissake, Picky," came a familiar, welcome voice. "Jesus Christ, go stop those reporters over there from bringing the cameras in."

Gentle hands lifted Stephanie to a sitting position. "Are you okay, Cupcake?"

"Joe," Stephanie cried, her voice thick with tears. "Ranger… did they find him?"

Joe picked her up from the ground and circled his arms around her, holding her against his chest with one arm around her waist and the other tangled in her hair. "I'm so sorry, Cupcake. Someone launched a rocket through the penthouse window. According to the control room, Ranger had just gone up there a few minutes before." Joe paused and swallowed hard. "I don't think there's any chance he made it."

"Who, Joe? Why?" Stephanie sobbed into his chest.

"I don't know who or why," Joe's voice turned harsh, "but we'll find out, and they'll pay."

"I need to be there, to see if I can help," Stephanie told him, pulling back from the cold comfort of his arms. "I need to see for myself."

"Come on, then. Tank was downstairs when it hit, and he's taking over, trying to keep the business operational. He'll know if there's something you can do."

Joe put an arm around Stephanie's waist, supporting her as she limped onto the scene. There were fire trucks on both sides of the building shooting jets of water into the smoking ruins. Ambulances and rescue vehicles, lights blazing in red and yellow, blue and white bursts, lay like discarded toys at random angles in the street.

Tank stood with the Chief of Police on the sidewalk across the street from the burning edifice, gray plaster dust streaking his black RangeMan uniform and dark skin, rusty drying blood painting his face and hands. He was barking orders into his cell phone, his rumbling voice telling someone to go to the backup control room and resume monitoring the accounts immediately.

He snapped his phone shut the instant he spotted Stephanie, and his eyes were red rimmed and sparkling with moisture as he held his arms out to her.

"Bombshell," he choked out as she melted into him, her shuddering sobs shaking them both.

"Tank," she whimpered, "have they found him?"

"They won't let us look. Structural damage. Until the fire's out and they shore up the building, nobody goes in."

"What… What about Ella and Luis?"

"Out, thank God. Night off."

"Who's hurt?" Stephanie gestured at the ambulances.

"Most of the sixth floor collapsed into the fifth. Hal and Ram were on monitor duty, and Manny and Zero were in the control room, too. All of them will be okay. A lot of bruising, cuts and scrapes, a couple of broken bones. Lester and Bobby and I were on the fourth floor when it hit, and we got them out."

As darkness fell over Trenton, Stephanie remained there staring at the shattered shell that was once RangeMan, numbness overcoming her body and icy cold seeping into her soul. Tank went back to issuing orders, keeping an arm around her, and Joe stood on her other side, his hand on her shoulder.

After about an hour, Stephanie sat down on the sidewalk against the townhouse across from the wreckage. She was too sick at heart to stay on her feet any longer, and she crossed her legs and doubled over, arms wrapped around her midsection. She felt gutted, afraid that if she didn't hold them in her intestines would come tumbling out into the grime of the gutter.

Joe came back over from where he was interviewing witnesses. "It's time to go home, Cupcake," he said to her. "I'll drop you off on my way to the station."

"No thanks, Joe." Her voice was dull and emotionless. "I need to stay here."

Joe examined her eyes, seeing the agony there, and nodded. "Take care of her," he said to Tank before turning and walking away.

As the emergency vehicles drove away one by one Stephanie began weeping again, but in absolute silence, her shoulders shaking and tears flowing down around the fingers she had pressed over her face.

At midnight just one fire truck remained in case of flare-ups, and the police tape fluttered abandoned in the breeze. Finally Tank said, "Come on, Bombshell. There's nothing more we can do here. I'll take you home."

"I can't go, Tank," Stephanie blubbered into her hands. "I need to stay."

Tank grunted down to the sidewalk beside her. "Okay. Let's stay a while longer."

After a time, Stephanie stopped crying and fixed her eyes on the garage opening, the metal barred gates gaping wide for the first time she could remember. Her heart fluttered, and a shiver shimmered her flesh.

"Tank," she said, clutching at him.

"Cold?" he asked, starting to put his arm around her.

But she was on her feet, hobbling toward the garage entrance, oblivious to the contusions and scrapes and aches that plagued her.

"Bombshell?" She heard Tank behind her, lumbering up with a groan, bruised and battered from the impact of the explosion. "Don't go in there. It's not safe."

Stephanie raced down the ramp. It was dark, and the dust from the explosion still hung in the air, stinging her eyes. The smell of smoke filled her nose and its taste was acrid on her tongue. The shadows shifted as Tank's silhouette stretched down the ramp.

"Bombshell?"

She stopped and peered into the dimness, waiting.

And a shadowed form staggered out from behind a pillar. She leaped forward to lend her shoulder for support, bracing him with both arms around his waist. The streetlight peeked in to reveal a face half obscured by black blood. The long straight hair was singed short, but his teeth gleamed brilliant white in the darkness as he gave her a full two-hundred watt smile.

"Babe."

_The end_


End file.
